


Bait

by withoutaplease



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-21 04:23:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6037897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withoutaplease/pseuds/withoutaplease
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean stays with reader for her own protection, and they find a way to pass the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bait

               Your thighs start to tremble again, so violently this time that they barely have the strength to keep you propped up. You’re kneeling on the bed, straddled over Dean’s torso while he tirelessly and happily laps his tongue up deep into your pussy and captures your clit in the wet-hot suction of his lips. He holds you up against him with strong forearms clamped over your legs, and you let your fingertips dig deep into his shoulders.   You cry out loud, your voice breaking, as another orgasm overtakes you, and it’s almost too much, just on the right side of pleasure and pain.  When it passes, and you’re so sensitive that the slip of his tongue feels like torture, your hand flies into his hair and you grab tightly, pulling until he moves his lips, all swollen and glossy, away from your cunt. 

               “How many was that?” he asks breathlessly, reclining on the bed. He lies propped on one elbow, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.  His lip curls up in a smile when he brings his hand away.

               “At least four,” you say, dazed-beaming and chest heaving. 

                “I can do more if you can do more,” he says with a quirk of his eyebrow.  “Anyone ever told you you taste like cherries?”

               You laugh, and you’d blush if your cheeks weren’t already flushed and burning, and you let yourself fall backwards onto the pillows.  “I actually think I need to rest for a minute here,” you say, staring up at the ceiling, your vision taking its sweet time coming back into focus.

               Dean crawls over to lie next to you, resting his arm across your chest and crossing a leg over yours, trapping his cock, thick and hard, between your bodies.  He kisses you, and his lips feel as full as they look, and when your tongues slide against one another, you can taste yourself in every corner of his mouth.  _Like cherries._

               When he draws his lips away, he looks down at you for a moment, serious.  “You still okay with this?” he says, “We don’t have to keep going if you don’t want.”

               But you want, now more than ever. You started wanting the moment he showed up at your door this morning with lethally green eyes and a sharp blue suit, and you believed he and his brother were FBI agents there to investigate the mysterious disappearance of your husband three days ago.

               “Don’t you dare stop,” you say, and you arch up against him.  A tiny groan escapes with his next breath as you press your thigh up against his cock. 

               “Good,” he says raggedly, and when he sucks your lower lip into his mouth, he trails his fingertips across your chest, down between your breasts, over your navel, and finally, carefully, through the slick and swollen-raw folds of your pussy.  He slides them back and forth, with almost no pressure at all, soothing away the soreness, until your hips are rolling up against his touch and you’re making little kitten sounds between kisses. “What do you want now?” he whispers, close enough that you can feel the flutter of his lips just barely touching yours.

* * * * *

               You were pleasantly surprised when he showed up at your door again this evening, having ditched the suit, the partner, and the pretence. You briefly thought he was kidding when he told you that your husband had been grabbed by a real-life monster – one he had reason to believe might be coming back for you – but the steely, patient look he gave you after he broke the news seemed to say he expected such a reaction, and he remained unmoved.  Despite the utter absurdity, you believed him.  His partner – his brother – had gone after the thing in what they suspected was its lair, and Dean was here to greet it if it showed up at your house first.  “ _Bait_ is such an ugly word,” he said, when you asked, and you put up a token protest, before you let him in and offered him a drink.

               He was on his third bottle of your husband’s beer when he decided to speak up.  The two of you were sitting at far ends of your sectional sofa, neither paying much attention to the police procedural that you had playing on the TV, and the small talk had more or less dried up after you’d exhausted the topics of the weather ( _mild for this time of year_ ), sports ( _you didn’t follow any_ ), and what you do for fun ( _who has time for fun when you work a 9-5?_ ). It was a commercial break, and you had just emptied your wine glass, when he turned to you and said, “Listen, and feel free to tell me where to shove it here, but I have to say . . . you don’t seem too busted up about the fact that your husband might’ve been eaten.”

               You chuckled, and it came out more like a cough.  “Well, I’m not saying I want him to be eaten,” you said, with a rueful smile, “but at first, part of me was hoping that he wasn’t coming back.”

               Dean raised his eyebrows. “So you don’t get along with him,” he said. “You didn’t say that when we were questioning you earlier,” he added.

               “Guess it’s a good thing you weren’t the real FBI!” you retorted, making a face. “It didn’t seem relevant. By the time you showed up, I already knew he hadn’t just up and left me.  He didn’t pack any of his things.”

               Dean knocked back the rest of his beer, and you couldn’t help stealing a glance at his lips wrapped around the mouth of the bottle.  “Why would you have thought he left you?” he asked.

               You chuckled again, this one more of a huff, and averted your eyes from Dean’s. “Umm,” you said, hesitant. “He hasn’t really been . . . uh . . . interested in me. In a long time.  Like, a _long_ time.”

               “Interested, like, sex?” he said, and you were a little taken aback by his bluntness.

               “Right,” you said, your eyes on the rug, as your cheeks prickled with embarrassment.

               “Never ceases to amaze me,” he said, and you looked up at him again..

               “What’s that?” you asked, as you reached for your glass and were disappointed to recall that it was empty.

               “Marriage,” he said. “I see all these women –beautiful women like you – and as soon as someone takes them down the aisle, it’s like the light burns out.  If I had a woman like you in my bed every night, I’d make sure you knew I appreciated it.”

               You laughed, embarrassed, trying not to imagine what a promise like that from Dean would look like.  “Well,” you say, “I knew the honeymoon couldn’t last forever.  I just didn’t think we’d shut down the whole production so soon, you know?  I miss it.  I miss being that excited.  I miss feeling that good.”

               Dean was quiet for a moment, and when you looked over at him, he was calculating.  He turned to you again.  “I could make you feel that good,” he said softly, and the line was cheesy as hell, but the look on his face was a perfect blend of confidence and sincerity.  When you didn’t immediately shoot him down, he moved across the few feet of sofa separating the two of you, and sat down again, not touching you, but much closer.  “Am I out of line?” he asked, head tilted, then he darted out the tip of his tongue to wet his lips.

               All at once you could feel your heart slamming in your chest.  “I’m married,” you said carefully.

               He nodded, then countered, “I ain’t telling anybody.”  You chewed on the inside of your cheek, and your heart was beating so hard you could feel the pressure in your ears.  “If you want,” he said, leaning back a little into the couch, shrugging.  “Maybe I’m imagining things.”

               “You’re not,” you said quickly, without thinking.  You sighed, the tension so thick in the air you could smell it.  “Do you mean it?”

               Dean leaned in close to you again, and this time he was barely holding back a smirk. “That I won’t tell anyone,” he said, his eyes cast down to your lips, just inches away from his face, “or that I’ll make you feel good?” He looked you in the eye again, and your lips pursed as you looked back, trying to suppress a smile of your own.

               “Both,” you said, like it was a challenge.

               “Scout’s honour,” he said, his gaze returning to your mouth.  You parted your lips, nodded slightly.

               “How do we start?” you whispered, but Dean was already moving in for the kill. 

               “Just like this,” he murmured back, an instant before his lips made contact with yours.  You exhaled hard through your nose, trying to relax into Dean’s kiss, your heart practically leaping out of your chest.  His hand came up to cup the side of your head, and his tongue slipped out to wet your lip, and you barely recognized the high-pitched, needful sound that came from the back of your throat. Dean broke the kiss, but kept hold of your face. “Why don’t you show me your bedroom?” he said, and you kissed him, hard, unable to bear stopping so soon after you started.  You nodded into the kiss, and pulled him up standing without breaking it, grabbing him by fistfuls of flannel. 

               “Come on,” you said, when you could tear yourself away.  “This way.”  You clasped Dean’s hand and half-led, half-pulled him behind you up the stairs to your bed, feeling the slip of your slick between your legs with every step.  He kissed you again before he laid you out; a slow, deep kiss that promised there would be no rushing through the motions tonight.  He lifted your shirt, and you unbuckled his belt, and then the two of you fell, kissing and undressing, into bed.

* * * * *

               "Fuck me," you answer, your voice catching, rough from all the screaming. "Please," you add, and Dean grins, like he's amused.

               "Are you always this polite?" he asks, and you laugh, and he kisses you again.  Then he takes his fingers from your pussy and gets up on his knees. "Since you asked so nicely," he says, reaching over to where his jeans are hanging on to the corner of the bed by one leg, and fishing a condom out of one pocket.  He scans his eyes over your body as he slips on the rubber, catching the edge of his lip in his teeth and shaking his head slightly. "Beautiful," he says quietly, more to himself than to you, as he moves to kneel between your legs.

               He's got his cock in hand when he looks at you one more time, eyebrows raised in a question that you answer with a smile.  Then he's rubbing his head along your slit, getting himself wet, making you flinch when he brushes your clit, still oversensitive from the magic he worked with his tongue. Then, all at once, he lines up and thrusts into you, scooping your legs up beneath the knees, filling you, and folding you in half beneath him, as you moan.  He stops at the top of his thrust, kissing you again, first on the lips, then at the pulse point on your throat.  "How's that?" he murmurs, mouth next to your ear.

               He hasn't moved yet, but your pussy is throbbing, stretched around him. "It's good," you say, in a pleading, breathless voice that asks for more without actually asking.

               "You should feel it from my end," he says, sounding equally wrecked.  He finally moves, pulling nearly all the way out before sliding in again, slow and easy.  "You feel amazing."

               He sets an unhurried pace, and with his arms keeping your hips high off the bed, you have no leverage to try to spur him on faster.  You let your head fall back and bring up one hand to hold him at the nape of his neck, your other hand fisting a handful of bedspread.  He builds you up gradually, stopping often to suck wet kisses into your neck and shoulders and breasts, until it's like an itch deep inside you that could be scratched if only he'd go a little bit . . .

               "Harder," you breathe, and he growls deep in his throat before obliging you. He rises tall on his knees, and hitches up your legs until your ankles rest on his shoulders.  He starts to thrust again, and this time it's hard and quick, angled right where you need it.  You start to moan, and your pussy clenches up, and you grab hold of the rungs of your headboard.

               Dean turns his head to mouth sloppy kisses along your calf and ankle, and when he looks at you again, you see the colour has started to rise high in his cheeks. "Let me see you come again," he says, his hips pumping hard, his breath heaving in his chest. "You're gorgeous when you come."

               You're close enough that his words tip you over, and this time the contractions come on so intensely that it takes you a minute to realize the voice yelling, "Fuck!" over and over actually belongs to you.  When you come down enough to look at him, you see Dean squeezing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth.  He keeps rhythm for a few more long, deep strokes, and then he lets go of your legs and falls forward, holding himself up on his hands, resting his forehead on yours.  He groans low while he comes, and you wrap your arms and legs around him until he stops quaking.

               You lie together awhile, spooning, trying to savour the feeling of his bare chest against your back for as long as it lasts. "Listen," he says, when both of your hearts have slowed back to normal, "I know your marriage is none of my business, but if you ask me, you need to be fucked as often as possible."  You laugh.

               "You'll get no argument from me," you reply.

               You're just on the cusp of sleep when Dean's phone starts to vibrate.  His end of the conversation is all "yeahs" and "okays," but you get the gist anyway, especially when he gets up and starts dressing before the call is over.  "You're safe," he says, when he ends the call. "My brother took care of it. He's bringing your husband home."  He adds, after a beat, "You probably have time for a shower," and for the briefest moment, he sounds almost contrite.

               You get out of bed to do just that, stopping him mid-zipper for one more kiss. "Thank you," you say, looking him square in the baby greens. Then you duck into the bathroom and close the door behind you.  You run the water, drowning out the sound of Dean's footsteps as he walks back down the stairs.


End file.
